


A congregation of butterflies

by Fiathe



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Cutting, M/M, Pre-debut, Twoshot, and potential fluff, self-depreciation, there will be some sort of morals towards the end, warping of good intentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiathe/pseuds/Fiathe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With every failure, Yoongi cuts a little deeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. cut a little deeper

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of trigger warnings for this fic: cutting, self-depreciation, warping of something known as The Butterfly Project. If you are uncomfortable with any of these, particularly the last one, then please don't read.

#### 

He stands naked from waist up in their cold, too-tiny bathroom. The door is locked with its little jimmy latch that honestly is open-able from the outside if you jiggle the doorknob till the door slips open, and then slide your hand inwards and upwards. Yoongi doesn’t care. Or more like he isn’t in the right state of mind to care. 

There are only the two kids at home, eyes fixated on TV, and here is Yoongi, eyes fixated on himself. 

He’s looking at himself in the mirror, counting the bumps of each rib and panicking when he reaches the end and his fingers slip down onto smooth skin. He’s no Jimin. He knows that. He’s always known that. But reason wars with fear and all he can see in the mirror are the marks of imperfections and then the stark red lines of perfection.

They’re beautiful, a row of poppies in snow.

No. No. No. He’s not supposed to think of cutting. Butterflies. That’s what he’s got to think about. Butterflies and drawing and not blood and blades and cutting and-

 

> Jimin had first discovered Yoongi’s bad habit shortly after they were finalized for Bangtan Sonyeondan. He had stumbled into the bathroom late one night, rubbing at sleepy eyes, but having had spent the whole day dancing and inhaling liquids, was in dire need for the toilet.   
> 
> The sight behind the closed door however had wiped away all feelings of tiredness and bladder needs.
> 
> Yoongi, leaning against the bathroom wall, eyes closed with pleasure or pain, Jimin hadn’t been able to decide. Lips as thin and red as the lines embedded in the crook of his elbow.
> 
> Jimin had inhaled sharply, an involuntary action. It was a muted sound but enough to alert Yoongi and he had snapped his eyes open, the glazed expression focusing with fear.
> 
> “Ji…min…” he had croaked, and dropped the blade to the bathroom floor. It clattered, the sound amplified in the silence that had reigned. Jimin had flinched and stumbled backwards, heart and hands floundering.
> 
> “Don’t go!” Yoongi barked, voice steadier than before, effectively stopping Jimin in his tracks.
> 
> “What are you doing hyung?” Jimin had whispered, unable to draw his eyes away from the thin veil of red on one side of the tiny razor. He had only known Yoongi for a few months but everything he thought he had known about the elder had never pointed to these silent tendencies and midnight secrecies.
> 
> “It’s…it’s not what you think,” Yoongi had rasped, trying to kick the blade underneath the carpet as he got to his knees. As if that would change a thing.
> 
> Jimin had swallowed hard and tried to coerce his stormy thoughts into coherent words. “Why are you doing this?” he had managed.
> 
> Yoongi had dropped his head between his hands, his elbows creasing with the movements and a wave of pleasure-pain had rippled up his nerves. “I don’t know,” Yoongi had whispered harshly, trying to shut out everything. Jimin, the blade, the desire to pick it back up and cut it all away. “I just can’t help it.”
> 
> His words had been small, lost in the tiny bathroom that had suddenly felt a thousand times bigger, a gaping maw that grew and stretched in the distance between the two of them.
> 
> Jimin had wanted to rectify that.
> 
> He had glanced behind him, ears pricking at the unnerving quietness of the dorm. Everyone was deep in slumber. He closed it to a crack, and then crossed the distance between him and Yoongi in one stride. 
> 
> Yoongi had watched as Jimin slowly took one of Yoongi’s hands between his warm clasp. In contrast, Yoongi’s skin had felt like ice.
> 
> Jimin had turned over Yoongi’s palm with such gentleness that Yoongi hadn’t known Jimin capable of, and he had pulled his hand forwards, stretching and baring the wounded arm. Blood had smeared over the expanse of his forearm, starkly red against Yoongi’s white.
> 
> Jimin turned on the tap with his spare hand and the sound of rushing water filled their tiny cove. Gently, with a trembling hand, he dabbed at the blood with dampened toilet paper. The touch of the sodden mess had made Yoongi want to hiss, but he clenched his teeth and held it back.
> 
> He didn’t need Jimin feeling guilty where it wasn’t his fault.
> 
> So he sat and watched with a tight jaw as Jimin slowly wiped away the blood, periodically chucking a redden clump into the toilet paper and then wetting another few sheets.
> 
> One cut.
> 
> Two cut.
> 
> Three wipes better.
> 
> All clean, Jimin stuck a plethora of plasters over each cut and pressed down on the flush handle. Yoongi eyed them with suspicion. Half of them would probably fall off through the course of the night, and the other half Yoongi would have to take off come tomorrow morn to avoid further suspicion, but for now he’d received Jimin’s quiet attention.
> 
> Done, Jimin had lifted Yoongi’s cold hand to his cheek and held it there. “Please don’t do this again hyung,” he had begged, eyes closed as if trying to erase the scores of red that were imprinted to the back his eyelid. “Please don’t hurt yourself anymore Yoongi-hyung.”
> 
> Yoongi didn’t dare say a word then. He had just reached for the blade and quietly pocked it.
> 
> Any promises he would make would just be a lie.

 

Yoongi’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling radically and he’s so short on breath that he wonders if he’s going to pass out right here and now, his body tipping forwards and his head cracking against the basin. He’d slip to the floor and blood would seep out and in between the lines of the floor tiles.

It’s a beautiful thought.

Butterflies, crimson red, fluttering away with the wind.

No. No. No!

Yoongi grasps the black marker that he’s stashed in the cupboard under the sink and practically yanks off the cap. It goes flying and tumbling to the floor. He draws the first butterfly on the underside of his wrist. The simple hourglass figure that Jimin came up with.  A line down for the body. Two lines upwards for the antenna.

It’s not enough.

Red lurks at the recesses of Yoongi’s mind and he draws another butterfly a space down. And another. And another.

They line up, streaks of black, and in his fogged mind they waver and overlap.

He begins to run out of space, the butterflies fluttering closer and closer to his cuts, old and scabbed over. The marker bumps as goes over the first ridge, and there’s a strange sensation of almost… _pleasure..._  at the pressure exerted by the marker tip

Yoongi groans as his brain slips.

No. Focus Min Yoongi. Draw the butterflies. Make the pain go away. Don’t think about hurting yourself.

He starts drawing on the other arm, uneven butterflies with lopsided wings. His mind wanders and he thinks of the new track he was making earlier that day after dance practice when he had slipped up for the sixth time and needed the refuge of cool leather and keys beneath his fingers. Everyone had been tired and frustrated, and even though they had said nothing, he could feel it in the air. See it in their eyes. Namjoon had finally called it quits after an hour, but Yoongi had seen it. Disappointment in all its densely clouded grey.

His track had reflected that, a deep heavy bass that felt like the dropping of a stone to the bottom of a lake. A softer, barely perceptible note in the background, almost drowned out by the sheer shake of the track.

Yoongi had pressed the save button and practically fled, even before the computer had finished shutting down.

 

> Jimin had been the one to suggest it.
> 
> “It’s called The Butterfly Project,” he had said one day when it was only the two of them lounging in their dorm’s tiny living room, his feet slung over the arm of the sofa and an iPad in his lap.
> 
> “The what?” Yoongi had been caught off guard.
> 
> “The Butterfly Project,” Jimin repeated, one finger sliding down the screen. “Or the Butterfly Effect.”
> 
> Yoongi made a sound of assent through the noodles he was slurping. “Mm okay,” he mumbled. “And what does it do?”
> 
> It was just the two of them in the dorm, left alone to whatever devices they so wished to follow. It was a free day off and apparently everyone else had decided they had better things to do than wake Yoongi and Jimin up.
> 
> “They say every time you feel like cutting yourself, draw a butterfly instead,” Jimin explains. “Then you’re not allowed to wash to it off. And for as long as the butterfly stays there you can’t cut. If you do, the butterfly dies.”
> 
> Yoongi had snorted into the soup. “Really?”
> 
> Jimin frowned at him. “Hyung, take this seriously. It’s a really good idea.”
> 
> Yoongi dropped his chopsticks as he declared, “I can’t even draw.”
> 
> Jimin placed down his iPad and scooted over to the dining table, nudging Yoongi to one side. “It doesn’t have to be a good butterfly hyung,” he said amicably. He had reached for a loose piece of scrap paper and a spare pen, tugging them close to the two of them. “It’s just a metaphor anyway.”
> 
> Yoongi had watched as Jimin tried to scribble out a butterfly, frowning and biting at his lower lip as it hadn’t worked out. "Hmm, you could draw a line here, then um, the wings, and um.” He tried another butterfly, crossing it out when it didn’t so much as resemble anything with wings.
> 
> Yoongi had taken another bite of his noodles, letting the idea simmer, before reaching over and placing his hand over Jimin’s. “Simplify it,” he had suggested, leading Jimin’s hand and scrawling down a passable butterfly.
> 
> He had used Jimin’s nightmarish attempt as a basis. An hourglass turned on its side, the wings straight and angular. One line down the middle that was the abdomen. And sprouting from the top, two tiny lines for the antenna.
> 
> “How’s that?” he had said, doubting himself the minute he pulled the pen away. It was in no way artistic, but there was some resemblance. Or so Yoongi hoped.
> 
> He had turned to look at Jimin, to assuage his reaction.
> 
> To his surprise Jimin had looked ecstatic. “This is brilliant hyung! Really cool!”
> 
> “Yeah?” Yoongi had mumbled and returned to his noodles to hide whatever expression he had been making.
> 
> “Why don’t we try it out now?” Jimin had suggested and grabbed for a large black marker sitting in the pen jar. He had taken Yoongi’s non-dominant hand and pushed up the sleeve of his baggy sweatshirt.
> 
> Yoongi had frozen, half expecting one of the five other boys to burst in and see everything, for his secret to be exposed in the harshest of ways.
> 
> But nothing had happened. No lightning strike. No meteor fall. Just Jimin, uncapping a pen and replicating the design onto Yoongi’s skin, brow furrowed and bottom lip caught between teeth as he focuses. 
> 
> “How’s that?” he had asked, pulling back after nearly a minute of solid lines. Yoongi had examined the tiny thing, around three fingers wide and with lines so thick it’d probably take a solid week before it would vanish of its own accord.
> 
> It was wobbly and skewed, but it was a butterfly, and it had Jimin’s heart and soul embedded in each shaky line.
> 
> “You can’t wash this off now, okay?” Jimin had said with a smile on his face. “And then you can’t cut yourself again, okay?”
> 
> Yoongi had sighed and yanked down his sleeve, leaning over instead to finish his noodles.
> 
> But when Jimin had pouted and tugged at Yoongi’s shirt, Yoongi had rolled his eyes and offered the remains of his noodles to Jimin.
> 
> “Alright Jiminnie,” he had said in a low voice, and Jimin had grabbed the bowl and the chopsticks and beamed.

 

The water runs hot behind him in the shower, steam billowing in the air. Yoongi sucks down the moisture and feels it swirl, clinging to his throat. Everything is sticky and hot and it’s hard to breathe. The marker in his hand slides and the butterfly he is drawing on his right bicep slips, a long black line streaking down sweaty skin.

He stares at it and it looks so much like one of his scars scabbed over that he swallows involuntarily. The spit slides down his throat heavy as lead.

Jimin had taken away his razor after the first time he had caught Yoongi cutting, only giving it back to him when he needed to shave, which honestly wasn’t often, and even then, only when he was around to watch Yoongi shave.

But Jimin can’t confiscate the other razors and Yoongi knows that out of everyone in the dorm Taehyung and Seokjin have the sharpest blades.

He licks his lips as he imagines the first slice.

The marker falls to the floor and somehow Yoongi is already on his knees, a blade in his hand.

He can barely see himself in the mirror, so fogged up as it is. But he likes it that way. Not having to see himself. The disappointment in his eyes. The sag at the corners of his mouth. The block in his mind that refuses to let the beats out. The legs that give way when he needs them the most.

Blood. Butterflies. Blades. Let it all fly away.

 

> The first time Yoongi had been tempted to cut after Jimin had first laid out his idea, his hands had gone to the blade without even thinking. He had lifted it, deliciously cool under his thumb, and his fingers had pushed back the fabric of his three-quarter sleeves that hid the plethora of cuts at his elbow.
> 
> His chest rose and fell rapidly as he brought the blade down onto flesh and bone. The tantalizing touch, the gentle caress.
> 
> All he had to do was apply a little pressure.
> 
> But then as he bent over, the sleeve of his right arm had rucked up and the faint fade of the butterfly Jimin had drawn there, just three days prior, had come into view.  
> 
> Yoongi had swallowed hard and stared, blacked lines that cut through the fog.
> 
> “What’s that hyung?” Taehyung had asked earlier that day, seeing the peep of the antenna from underneath his sleeve. He had grabbed for Yoongi’s arm, but Yoongi had swerved and only just avoided at the last minute.
> 
> “It’s just Jimin playing around,” Yoongi had said roughly, his hand pushing down his sleeves as far as they would go.
> 
> “Eh?” Taehyung had whined. “You never let me play with you.”
> 
> “I was sleeping,” Yoongi had lied, and then spied a spare hoodie. For good measure he had slipped it on in case Taehyung was tempted to sneak another look.
> 
> And because of that Yoongi had forgotten that the mark was there. But he sees it now, three days faded and all artistic ability shot to hell.
> 
> He faltered. 
> 
> _If you cut, the butterfly dies_ , Jimin had said.
> 
> Rather than butterflies, Yoongi feels like Jimin might die. So he had forced himself to take the blade and put it back in the bathroom cupboard. His hands had been shaking like some sort of withdrawal druggie, but he had told himself to be strong, to close the door and his eyes and think of anything but the pumping blood beneath the butterfly and his veins.
> 
> He threw open the bathroom door and Jimin had been there, head tilted, eyes puzzled.
> 
> “Weren’t you going to have a shower hyung?” he asked, and Yoongi had stumbled forwards into him, his hands going to Jimin’s shirt and gripping the material there.
> 
> “Hyung?” Jimin had whispered into his ear, one hand coming up to Yoongi’s back and grounding him there. “Are you okay?”
> 
> Yoongi shook his head.
> 
> Jimin’s breath had hitched, and his hand had gone to Yoongi’s sleeves, pushing them back. He made a noise of surprise when he saw nothing.
> 
> “You didn’t cut yourself hyung?”
> 
> Yoongi had shaken his head again.
> 
> “Was it because of the butterfly?”
> 
> Yoongi shook his head a third time, unwilling to answer Jimin. Jimin let it go and just stood there, rubbing soothing circles into his back, confused, but accepting that Yoongi could not produce an answer just yet.
> 
> _It wasn't because of the butterfly_ , Yoongi had wanted to say.  _It was because of you._

 

Now Yoongi presses the tip of his thumb to the blade and it pricks deliciously, blood welling up immediately. It must be a new blade.

Yoongi tries not to think of how disappointed Jimin will be. But the kid is still at the practice studio, dancing his heart out. And here is Yoongi, giving in the weight of his heart.

Jimin will be so, so disappointed.

Butterflies. He’s got to make sure Jimin doesn’t get disappointed.

The blade sinks into skin and Yoongi draws it upwards, the first thin, light slice. And then up, and down, and up again. A perfect triangular hourglass.

A line down the center.

Two lines at the top.

Jimin would be so proud.

He traces another one, digging in deeper. Sweat beads out on Yoongi’s temples and drips down. His tongue swipes out and catches it, salty to taste. He swallows hard and watches the butterfly bleed as he grips his balls his hand into a fist.

Again he cuts and a dizzy wave rushes through him, euphoric.   

But it’s not enough. Not big enough. Not large enough to carry the weight of all his pain on its fragile wings.

Yoongi trembles with realization, and the grip on the blade grows tighter. He needs a bigger canvas. A bigger stage. Yoongi stands and stares right into the mirror, right at his new canvas.

It’s always been about the big picture.

> Jimin had grown distant in the upcoming months to debut. He’s obsessed with training, with perfecting his image before it would be revealed to the public. When he wasn’t in the practice room going over their moves again and again, he was in the gym working out. When he wasn’t at home sleeping, he was in front of a mirror practicing his facial expressions.
> 
> Yoongi hadn’t wanted to admit it but he had missed the younger boy at his side.
> 
> It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand why Jimin was acting as he did, because Yoongi was doing the same. Just in different ways. When they didn’t have mandatory practice, he was in the studio, changing beats and adding in bars, shifting them back and forth and adding on layers. There’d be days when he would think one chord was perfect and his heart would leap every time he played the track back. And then the next it would be absolute rubbish and he would delete it without a second thought.
> 
> They weren’t songs for their debut album – those had already been finalized, and as much as Yoongi’s fingers were twitching to edit them one last time, management had expressively forbidden him from touching them so he had had to let those sleeping dogs lie – but these were potential songs for their next album, and they had to be a step above whatever they’re releasing in three months’ time.
> 
> “How’s it going?” Namjoon asked as he sank into the chair next to Yoongi, groaning as his spine cracked.
> 
> “Same old,” Yoongi had muttered, clicking the mouse furiously as he dragged and dropped several chords into the bin.
> 
> Namjoon had raised an eyebrow to the screen. “I thought you liked that section?”
> 
> “Not anymore,” Yoongi replied in a near growl. There was something building under his skin, fire and ice and snakes, all smooth and scaly and they were slithering around the traceries of his veins. He wanted to pluck them out, extract them, anything to get rid of the itchy sensation. It felt like there was something foreign in his body, circulating and parasitizing on his system.
> 
> “You okay?” Namjoon leaned over. Yoongi had been scratching at his arms without realizing it, the sleeves rucking up, almost to a dangerous point.
> 
> “I’m fine,” he had said roughly, standing abruptly and closing down the whole file without saving it. “I’m going to go take a shower.”
> 
> Namjoon had watched him go with an unnerved look. “O-kay,” he had said in an unsure tone and watched as Yoongi had flung over the studio door, so forcefully that it had collided with the wall, making Namjoon wince at the thought of paint chips and angry managers scolding.  
> 
> When Yoongi had gone, Namjoon had clicked open the file again. The song was short, incomplete, and only had a few base layers. But it was tough and gritty and it sounded like despair and terror all wrapped up into one chaotic clash, the dissonance of the beats, the rough heavy drum of the background. It sounded like Yoongi was simultaneously shouting and crying out at the world, and as the track wound to a halt, Namjoon felt like he had just walked through a storm and barely come out alive.

 

And here was Yoongi now, in the bathroom, blade in hand, skin peppered with fresh black lines and red scores. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He lifts the blade to just above his breast bone, and almost reverently brings it in close. One long swift line downwards, then upwards, a diagonal shift here. Repeat again. It bites in deeply and Yoongi relishes in the claws. The snakes are let loose. The fire extinguished. The ice thawed.

Done, he sways.

Yoongi feels weak, too weak to hold onto the blade. He lets the strength in his wrist fade and the blade clatters to the floor, red at the tips, smears on the tiles. He staggers forwards half a step and his hands are on the mirror, sliding and wiping away the steam.

He stares at his reflection with a half wondrous smile plastered on his lips.

It’s beautiful. A butterfly red as crimson, cut and drawn all the way up his arms, and the final flourish etched into his chest. 

He traces its outline in the mirror and watches as the fog slowly creeps back in, swallowing away his image and erasing it to a faint ghostly smear. His fingers run over and over the reflection again so that his body is mist, but the butterfly lines stand out starkly.

His mouth twitches as he watches the two images overlap, the one on the mirror and the one on his chest.

There’s a smile on his face, drugged and beatific, and the next he knows he is on the floor and the fog creeps in until the world is nothing but a dizzy whiteness and a red smiling smear. 

 


	2. fly a little further

####  **_  
_**

Taehyung grumbles as he pads towards the bathroom. It’s been almost half an hour since Yoongi went in, claiming first shower as the oldest hyung currently in the dorm. Jungkook sits in the living room watching TV drowsily as he waits for Namjoon to get back from the studio, Seokjin from vocal practice, and Hoseok and Jimin from their extended hours in the dance room.

The hyungs had sent Jungkook home early, claiming he was still underaged and so needed his sleep. Taehyung had tagged along for the sole purpose of not having to do more dance practice. But Jungkook hates sleeping early, so he expressively disobeys them and sits in front of the TV, not really watching the cartoons Taehyung had chosen, but just sitting back and zoning out. Taehyung doesn’t really care what Jungkook does, and he figures they won’t have much time for TV once they debut, so it’s a truce that works out well between the two of them.

Except Jungkook is really bored and nodding off, until there’s a sharp yell from the direction of the bathroom, and it snaps Jungkook out of his stupor.

“Tae?” he calls as he rushes into the hallway, all sleepiness eradicated as he sees Taehyung pressed up against the wall, mouth open in horror.

“Tae? What’s wrong?”

The bathroom door is opened a crack, the latch being faulty and allowing one to open it a good 10cm before properly preventing entry.

Jungkook follow’s Taehyung shaking finger.

On the floor. There’s red. That’s the first thing Jungkook sees. The second: Yoongi’s dark hair.

Bile rises in his throat and he throws a hand over his mouth to stop himself from throwing up.

“C-call Seokjin-hyung,” Jungkook says unsteadily. “He’ll know what to do.”

Taehyung nods, unable to speak, and dashes down the hallway to fumble for the phone. Jungkook can hear him dial the numbers desperately, hands slipping and shaking. He drops the phone once, and keys in the numbers wrongly the second time. Come third, he manages to connect to Seokjin and he stutters into the phone.

“Hyung? Something happened. Please come back. Please hurry. Yoongi-hyung, Yoongi-hyung…”

The words fade as Jungkook focuses on Yoongi. He snakes a hand in through the gap and nudges the latch up. The door swings inwards, exposing the scene of the crime.

Yoongi is lying on his back, his tousled hair close to the door, but his face turned away so that Jungkook cannot see his closed eyes or slightly ajar mouth.

Instead what Jungkook sees are arms as black as pitch and chest as white as snow. And everywhere, everywhere there are bloody butterflies.

x

They all crowd the hospital corridor, having being refused entry to Yoongi’s hospital room. The doctor cites his patient’s mental health and all that. Bullshit, Namjoon thinks. Yoongi’s so drugged up that he wouldn’t even realize they were there.

“Doctor?” Namjoon steps forwards hurriedly as the doctor closes Yoongi’s hospital room door behind him. “Is he okay? What happened? Will he be alright?”

The doctor holds up one hand to ward off Namjoon’s questions. He takes out a clipboard and flicks through the stack of paper there.

“Min Yoongi is lucky that you got him here before he lost too much blood,” the doctor says matter-of-factly. He’s found that’s the best way to deal with relations of patients of these sorts. “We’ve stitched up his wounds and given him a blood transfusion. He’ll recover with no problems, though there may be scars left behind.”

The doctor gives them all a level gaze. “But what is more important is afterwards.”

“A-afterwards?” Namjoon stumbles. Seokjin takes him by the shoulders, steading him, and Namjoon leans in gratefully.

“Min Yoongi seems to have a history of cutting. This wasn’t the first time and it does not look like it will be the last unless proper measures are taken.”  

“What do you suggest doctor,” Seokjin says because Namjoon is incapable of asking. He may be leader, but he is still a teenager.

The doctor adjusts his glasses. “Therapy. Time off. He’s an idol right?”

“Preparing to be one,” Namjoon says hollowly.

“The same thing,” the doctor says. “The stress must be unimaginable. I’m sure he’s not the first trainee to have such thoughts, though his are rather extreme. I cannot fathom where the idea of carving a butterfly into his chest came from.”

Jimin makes a choking sound that causes everyone to turn to look at him. Namjoon notices his complexion, pale as a sheet, and the way he has to put one hand to the wall to steady himself.

“You knew?” Seokjin whispers, shock evident in his tone.

Jimin trembles. “I-“

“Young man,” the doctor says in a serious tone, turning his lamp like gaze onto Jimin. “If you knew that Min Yoongi was cutting then you should have not kept it to yourself. This is a life or death matter.”

“I-“ Jimin chokes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. He made me promise not to tell. He said he’d stop it himself and- and I thought if I told him to draw butterflies instead…”

“Butterflies?” The doctor squints. “I fail to see how-“

“It’s a trend going online right now,” a female voice cuts through. A nurse passing by. She stops and affixes Jimin with a pitying look. “They say that if you feel an urge to cut you should draw a butterfly where you want to cut instead and wish the pain away. It’s a metaphorical thing and whilst it is a good idea, it seems this patient took it a bit too far.”

“I see,” the doctor says darkly. “It was a noble idea, but I guess Min Yoongi’s psychological problems run deeper than I imagined. He will have to be monitored carefully.” The doctor bows to them and walks away, muttering under his breath.

Seokjin turns to Jimin, eyes wide, looking betrayed almost. “You knew about this and you didn’t tell us?”

Hoseok slides between the two of them. “Hyung,” he says warningly. “Jimin meant well.”

“But!” Seokjin snaps. One of his charges is lying in a hospital bed with bandages around his external wounds, but not his internal ones. Seokjin’s meant to be the one to watch over the team, to see when they are struggling with problems and to be there for them. Only he wasn’t. He’s failed Yoongi. It’s himself he’s angry at, not Jimin, but he can’t help but use Jimin as a conduct.

A hand takes him by the wrist. Seokjin spins round to see Namjoon’s distraught expression. Immediately his anger flees and his heart thuds.

“I’m meant to be the leader. I should have seen this,” he says forlornly.

Seokjin’s heart aches and he envelopes Namjoon in a big hug. Namjoon may be leader but he is three years younger than he is and this is no burden he should bear.

“Shh,” Seokjin soothes, rubbing a hand up and down Namjoon’s back. “We all should have seen this.”

Jimin slides down the wall and curls in on himself. Hoseok squats and places a comforting hand on the back of his neck as Jimin hides his hands in his knees and feels the tears burn hotly behind his lids. His body shakes as he tries to suppress them. Hoseok doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t smile and that is enough to tell them that he too is shell shocked. Jungkook and Taehyung cling to each other’s sleeves, mute with horror. If Namjoon is too young to deal with this shit then throwing this onto Jungkook and Taehyung is like dropping them from ten story building.

It’s a terrible thing for Yoongi to want to cut himself; it’s an even more terrible thing that no one saw it coming, and that no one knows now knows how to deal with the consequences.

xx

Yoongi wakes blearily to white washed walls and a gentle beeping to his right.

He can’t feel anything and he wonders if the butterflies haven’t just taken his pain away, but everything else as well.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin whispers. Yoongi feels the soft touch of a finger across his cheek and then Seokjin comes into view.

 _Where am I?_  Yoongi wants to say, but his mouth feels like cotton and he cannot forms words. His mouth moves uselessly.

Seokjin however seems to know what he wants to say. “You’re in the hospital. Do you remember what happened? You cut yourself too deeply and nearly bled out. Taehyung and Jungkook found you and called for help before it was too late.”

Yoongi manages to turn his head a fraction. He can see Namjoon asleep in a chair, sitting upright and hands crossed. He mumbles something and jerks in his sleep. The three maknaes are curled onto the secondary bed in the room, bodies tangled around one another for comfort. Hoseok lies with his head pillowed on the bed and body in a hard plastic chair.

Seokjin is the only one awake. His skin is pale and there are dark bruises under his eyes. He looks like hell.

Yoongi feels like hell.

Seokjin’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “How could you Yoongi? How could you do such a selfish thing? How could you ever think of dying and leaving us all behind?”

Yoongi shakes his head gently. Such a simple act feels so strenuous.

Seokjin stares, puzzled.

Yoongi opens his mouth. The words come out slow and cracked, but he needs to convey the words. “I wasn’t thinking of killing myself,” he manages to say.

“Then what?” Seokjin bursts out, practically begging Yoongi to explain it so that he can understand. Because he can’t. He can’t fathom why anyone would welcome such pain. “Why else would you cut yourself?”

“I just…” Yoongi says as exhaustion laps at his edges. “I just wanted to cut away all the imperfections.”

Seokjin’s expression is that of heartbreak and Yoongi feels insanely guilty, but he can do nothing as sleep swallows him whole again and Seokjin’s face haunts him deep into a dreamless sleep.

xxx

Yoongi is released from the hospital with the promise that he is kept on a twenty-four hour careful watch. Everyone readily agrees, because in their minds they’ve already begun their watch.

There is to be someone with Yoongi at all times, whether it is another band member or staff. The managers and a few of the stylists have been told, but on the whole they’re trying to keep it under the wraps.

Yoongi hasn’t been allowed near a blade for a week now.

Its torture and relief at the same time. It means he can’t injure himself anymore, but it also means he has no way of releasing the snakes under his skin.

“What do you mean snakes?” Seokjin asks when it’s his turn to watch over Yoongi. They’re in kitchen and Seokjin is cooking dinner. Yoongi sits on the floor, legs drawn up to his chest and eyes drawn to the knife. He visibly swallows when Seokjin cuts the chicken breast into pieces and tries not to think of how the metal would feel on his skin instead, slicing it to ribbons.

They’re talking about why Yoongi wants to cut.

The doctor assigned a therapist to Yoongi, and one of the things he’s been instructed to do is talk about his problems. Seokjin is the easiest to speak with. He doesn’t judge Yoongi, not know that he realizes Yoongi isn't intending to kill himself. It’s also easier talking to someone older, because then it doesn’t feel like he’s burdening the younger kids. 

“It’s like there’s something crawling under my skin,” Yoongi says, his voice muffled against the thick material of his jeans. “And the only way to get them out is to cut.”

Seokjin pauses, a finger on the tip of the knife. “And how often do you feel these,  _snakes_?”

Yoongi thumbs the hole in his jeans, playing with the fray of the strings. “Frequently,” he admits. “More so lately.”

“Is cutting the only way to make them go away?” Seokjin asks, putting the knife down and turning to look at Yoongi seriously. “What about talking? What about music? What about going out for a run or something?”

Yoongi makes a face at the thought of exercise.

“Yoongi!” Seokjin scolds. “I’m trying to help you here.”

Yoongi sighs. “I know Seokjin, I’m sorry. It’s just…I don’t know. I don’t know how to stop them.”

Seokjin purses his lips and looks at Yoongi’s bare arms. The bandages are still there, wrapped firm and white. Seokjin knows because he’s the one who gently pats the wounds dry and then re-bandages them fresh after Yoongi has a shower.

“Did drawing those butterflies ever help?” Seokjin asks carefully, knowing he is treading on unsteady ground.

Yoongi stiffens for a second, but then shakes his head. “Not really,” he admits.

Seokjin is confused. “Then what made you stop cutting? Jimin told us that after he introduced the idea, you managed to stop for a few weeks.”

Yoongi nods and bites at his lower lip. “It well…it wasn’t because of the butterflies,” he says softly. Seokjin walks over and crouches so that he can be on the same eye level as Yoongi, same wavelength end of story. “It was because it made Jimin sad.”

Seokjin blinks, surprised. “You stopped cutting because Jimin found out right?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says. “He found out, and it made him cry. And I…” Jimin’s shocked face when he first opened that door and saw Yoongi, blade in hand, is one he’ll never forget. It’s carved into his heart, a place where no blade can touch.

“I see,” Seokjin says, rocking back on his heels thoughtfully. He pats Yoongi on the shoulder comfortingly and says, “Want to help me with dinner?”

Yoongi looks up, confused. He’s not allowed to touch kitchen equipment, particularly knives.

“You can help cook the rice,” Seokjin offers, a completely safe option, and Yoongi likes it. There’s a feeling of purposefulness, and it grows in his chest, small tiny buds.

“Okay,” he says and gets to his feet, a little unsteadily.

Seokjin smiles, helps him up, and then offers him an apron.

xxxx

When it’s Hoseok’s turn to stay with Yoongi, they’re in the recording room, playing with mixtapes and not really doing anything seriously. Hoseok leans over Yoongi, a little bit too close for comfort, and fiddles with the mouse.

Yoongi inhales sharply as Hoseok’s arm skims his, just above where the bandages are.

Hoseok’s eyes widen a fraction and he jumps back. “Sorry hyung,” he apologizes at the speed of light, looking to Yoongi’s arm, and then to his tight expression.

“It’s okay Hoseok,” Yoongi breathes, exhaling slowly and forcing himself to calm down. Other than Seokjin who does the bandages, no one has touched the wounds since. “I was just…surprised, that’s all. It doesn’t hurt,” he says as he tries to reassure Hoseok.

Hoseok bites his lip. There’s a question there, Yoongi knows. Hoseok always does that when there’s something he wants to ask, but is afraid to let it slip out.

“You can say what you want,” Yoongi prompts him, and the gates open.

“Can I touch them?” Hoseok blurts out, and then shuts his mouth abruptly. “I mean, that’s weird. You don’t have to if you don’t want to and I-“

“Sure,” Yoongi says, though his chest feels like it’s constricting, right under that sticky bandage over the butterfly. He takes a deep breath and tries to expand his lungs. “If you really want to…”

Yoongi holds out his arm.

Hoseok’s hands flutter over his arm, hesitation palpable. His fingers flit over the sleeve of Yoongi’s shirt that covers the bandages, and the thoughts of Yoongi even cutting, and it’s hard for Hoseok to curl his fingers over and pull back the fabric. Yoongi sits quietly, but inside it’s a storm.

The bandage hides most of the damage, but there are old scars closer to his wrist. They’re pale and thin, but against his white complexion it stands out starkly.

“What does it feel like?” Hoseok asks softly, almost in a trance.

Yoongi exhales. “Like I’m cutting away everything that’s wrong with me,” he confesses in a tiny voice. He’s never spoken about this before with a clear mind and its nerve wracking as hell.

“But there’s nothing wrong with you hyung,” Hoseok says, looking up at him. There’s no an ounce of a lie in his words.

Yoongi blinks rapidly, embarrassment coloring his words. “W-what are you saying Hosoek. There’s plenty wrong.”

Hoseok shakes his head firmly, his fingers closing around Yoongi’s wrist in a warm enclose. “Nothing,” he repeats. “There’s nothing wrong with you, okay?”

Yoongi swallows, feeling a lump there block its passage.

Hoseok smiles up at him, all soft and kind and Yoongi wants to punch him in the face for being so blatantly cheesy and then run away. But Hoseok grips his hand like they’re best friends and the feeling dies in his chest.

“You’re fine just the way you are Yoongi,” Hoseok says, dropping all honorifics. “So don’t do this again okay?”

Yoongi feels the dire need for oxygen, so he takes a deep breath, gulping air down. “Okay,” he manages to say and nod, and Hoseok beams and lets go of his wrist. His hand traverses back to the mouse and he drops in a new beat, lighter and fresh. It changes the entire dynamic of the song and Yoongi feels his heart beat along with the new poppy tune that Hoseok hums to. 

xxxxx

It’s not like the urge goes away just like that. There are still times when Yoongi wakes up and his mouth is dry and he just  _wants_  a blade in his hand. All the members will be asleep and it’d be so easy for him to slip away and find anything remotely sharp, but then he’ll hear a gentle snuffle and the shift of a body and know that if he did it, he’d be letting them down.

“What’s wrong hyung?” comes a tired little mumble. Jungkook. He rubs at his eyes and his feet stumble as he gets up. “Why are you awake?”

Yoongi tries to speak, but his mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof and feels heavy. “I-“

His hands rub at his wrists incessantly.

Jungkook’s sharp eyes pick up on that, no matter how sleepy he is. He crosses the small space between their bunks and sits down next to Yoongi.

“Does it  _itch_?” he asks, pointing to Yoongi’s arms.

Yoongi nods, not trusting himself to say anything more.

“Do you want to wash it? Or maybe if we put something warm on it?” It’s sweet that Jungkook is offering up all sorts of things, and maybe they’d work, but it's more likely that they wouldn't. 

“Why are you two awake?” Taehyung yawns as he pops his head down from his top bunk. “We have to be up in two hours.”

Jungkook looks up at him and explains. “Yoongi-hyung can’t sleep.”

Taehyung swings himself over and clambers down. “Why not?” he asks as he drapes himself over Yoongi, all hot and heavy, a growing eighteen year old boy for sure.

Yoongi wrinkles his nose, both at Taehyung and at the thought of trying to explain. “It’s just…my hands…” He stares down at his wrists where the bandage is still wrapped tightly around. It’ll be another week or so before he can take them off, but he’s not too sure he wants to because then the scars will be obvious and Yoongi’s not sure how he’ll react when he sees them.

Maybe they’ll scare him into never wanting to cut again.

Or maybe they’ll just reignite the urge in his chest.

Subconsciously his fingers and rubbing up and down the rough texture of the bandage.

“Don’t do that hyung,” Taehyung says sleepily and places his hands over Yoongi’s, effectively stopping him. “Seokjin-hyung says it’s bad to scratch stuff that are healing. Here. If I hold your hand then you won’t be tempted.”

Taehyung loops his fingers with Yoongi’s right hand. It’s warm, overheated to touch. 

“You can take the other side,” Taehyung says to Jungkook whose lips quirk at the thought of such intimacy, but he does it anyway. Now Yoongi is stuck with one hand intertwined with each kid.

“How are we going to sleep now?” he asks with a raised brow.

“We’ll squeeze,” Taehyung shrugs and collapses onto Yoongi’s bed, tugging him down as he goes. Yoongi yelps, but then Jungkook is crawling over him and squeezing into the tight space between Yoongi’s body and the wall. With three bodies in one tiny bunk, they have to lie on their sides, and there’s more than a fair share of limbs touching going on. Oh it’s suffocating and far too warm, and their hands are still twined which Yoongi is certain is going to mean he’s going to wake up with sweaty and cramped palms, but it’s also kind of nice. He’s never done this before.

He’s actually never paid that much attention to his bandmates before. Before it was all about competition, being the best rapper trying to get into Big Hit’s new group and he had always fallen short of first place. And even though he had gotten into the lineup he was still always just that one step behind. He wasn’t a dancer like Hoseok or Jimin and he would ever strive for such a thing. He wasn’t a pretty picture to look at like Seokjin or the maknae. He definitely wasn't unique enough of a character as Taehyung was. And even though he was a rapper at heart, it was clear the one who took the limelight was Namjoon. Yoongi had always felt like he was being sidelined and he had hated it.

It wasn’t any of their faults though. It was his. His own fault. For not being better. For not trying harder. So he had tried. Told himself that hard work would pay off, and that he didn’t need that extra hour of sleep or those extra set of crunches. So long as he could apply himself to music and strive for that, one day he’d show them all.

That he, Min Yoongi, would be the best.

Only it wasn’t working. Debut was crawling towards them, slow at first and then all of a sudden frightening fast, and it loomed over Yoongi like a monster under the bed. And Yoongi had nothing to show, no fruits of hard labor or whatnot. 

“Go to sleep hyung,” Jungkook mumbles into the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Taehyung sniffs. “If you think too much your brain will overheat.”

Yoongi snorts into Taehyung’s chest and closes his eyes. Maybe they’re right and maybe he’s just overthinking this all. He’ll close his eyes for now and try to slip in some sleep.

Maybe tomorrow things will be different.

xxxxxx

Seokjin pauses at the sight of three boys with tangled limbs and fingers. It makes him smile. 

It’s five in the morning and he’s supposed to get everyone up and dressed and fed by six, but the sight of Yoongi so relaxed – probably for the first time in weeks – his mouth half open and his nose squashed into Jungkook's shoulder, Taehyung's arms and legs wrapped around Yoongi's waist like an octopus, it makes him reluctant to disturb them. 

He takes a step back and checks the clock. If he wakes them up last they should still be able to make it. Just. He suppresses another smiles and closes the door. They can have another ten minutes or so in peace.

xxxxxxx

Namjoon stumbles into the kitchen, eyes not even open.

Seokjin grins and guides him to a chair, stuffs toast into his mouth and helps wrap his fingers around a mug of coffee.

“Fwanks,” Namjoon manages as he chews, eyes still somewhat shut. When he finally opens them he realizes the emptiness of the kitchen. “Where’s everyone?” he asks as he finished his toast. Seokjin lays him out another one on a plate and Namjoon nods his thanks and stuffs it right into his mouth.

“I let them sleep in,” Seokjin says as he leans back against the counter, his own hands wrapped around a mug of tea. He likes something soothing for the first thing in the goddam early morning.

“Eh? Why?”

Seokjin smiles secretively.

“What?” Namjoon whines, hating being left out. It doesn’t really work when his voice is coarse and rough with sleep, but even then it’s somewhat endearing, a big gruff bear bemoaning not being part of the circle of knowledge. 

Seokjin whips out his phone and taps at the screen. He passes it to Namjoon who chokes on a mush of coffee and toast and Seokjin has to hammer on his back to prevent the early demise of their to-be-leader.

“Why are they sleeping together?” Namjoon asks up at Seokjin, brows knitted.

“Aw, come on. Is that your only reaction? Don’t they look adorable?”

Namjoon raises his brow. An apparent no.

Seokjin sighs at Namjoon’s denseness. “I think Yoongi had trouble sleeping last night. So our two maknaes decided to help him out.”

“And you think that’s cute?”

Seokjin scowls. “You find it cute when Jungkook sleeps in my bed.”  

Namjoon shrugs. “That’s because the two of you look like a mother cat and a baby kitten, all curled and furry and drooling.”  

“I do not drool,” Seokjin frowns.

“Yes you do,” Namjoon shoots back, and Seokjin glares.

“And how is drooling even cat like?” he shoots back.

Namjoon opens his mouth to respond, and just when war seems imminent there’s the sound of a door being flung open and unsteady pattering down the hallway.

“Morning,” Hoseok yawns widely as he stumbles into a chair and his hands begin their blind quest for food and caffeine. Seokjin shoots Namjoon a look that says,  _this isn’t over_ , and goes over to help Hoseok.

When Hoseok is more receptive and awake, he mumbles around toast, “So why were Yoongi, Jungkook and Taehyung all sleeping in the same bed?”

“Yoongi had trouble sleeping,” Seokjin says with a smile. Hoseok just nods and helps himself to more food.

“He did?” comes a voice from the doorway. Jimin stands, bed head adorably sticking up in all directions and a far too big shirt draping over his frame. Worry is plastered all over his face.

Seokjin offers him a warm morning gaze. “Yoongi hasn’t been sleeping well for a while. It’s not really new… only before when he couldn’t sleep, I think that was when he went to the bathroom to…”

The unspoken words hang in the air, thick and heavy. Jimin swallows and darts away.

“He’s not taking it very well is he?” Namjoon sighs at Jimin’s retreating back.

Seokjin shrugs. “Of course not. He blames himself partially for not telling us, partially for giving Yoongi the idea about butterflies. It’s not his fault, not at all, but it’s not something you can just tell him and he’ll accept.”

“You should talk to him,” Hoseok says, looking at Namjoon.

“Me?” Namjoon looks affronted.

“Yeah,” Hoseok says. “He looks up to you. And you are our leader.”

It’s a fair point, but the fact that Namjoon – just recently only the maknae in a duo that then dissolved and became three, four, five, seven, and suddenly he’s the leader and expected to take care of every one – it’s that fact that hasn’t really driven home yet.

Seokjin is much better at all that caring stuff and Namjoon really thinks he should have been leader instead.

“Being leader is about guiding us forwards,” Seokjin had once said when Namjoon had broached the subject with him. “I can take care of people, but I can’t be a figurehead. That’s you all the way Namjoon.”

Namjoon sighs. “Alright, I’ll talk to him later.”

xxxxxxxx

Later is after dance practice is finished and they are all sweaty and tired. Jimin as usual stays behind longer than anyone else to try and get his moves perfect. He has the center position in the chorus where he lifts his shirt and spins. He’s in there now, doing the move over and over again, the music playing in his earbuds so he doesn’t have to walk far to replay the section every time he wants to a re-do.

Namjoon walks in slowly, giving Jimin ample time to notice him in the mirrors and unhook his earbuds.

“What’s up hyung?” he chirps, slightly out of breath.

Namjoon scuffs the floor, buying time. He’s not too sure how to bring this up with Jimin. What does he say?

_Hey are you okay?_

_Um, so you’ve been avoiding Yoongi a lot._

_I know you’re going through hard times but, well you should talk to Yoongi and ah-_

“Is this about Yoongi-hyung?” Jimin asks nervously.

Namjoon nods.

“I know what you want to say,” Jimin says hesitantly, his hands hooking into belt buckles and clinging onto them there.  He mirrors Namjoon, shuffling his sneakers. They squeak along the wooden floor and both boys wince.

“Sorry,” Jimin apologizes, quick and flightly. “And I’ll talk to Yoongi-hyung, I will…it’s just…”

“Just?” Namjoon prompts him.

Jimin swallows. “It’s just…I’m worried he hates me.”

“He’d never hate you,” Namjoon bursts out, louder than he intended. Jimin is looking at him with wide eyes like some startled faun. “I mean, Seokjin told me the only reason he stopped cutting a while back was because it made you sad. He cares about you Jimin. Your opinion matters to him. He’d never hate you.”

Jimin’s eyes soften at that. “Really?” he whispers in a cracked tone.

Namjoon smiles, warm and large and goofy. “Really,” he promises. “Let’s head back early and surprise them all.”

He holds out one hand in offer and Jimin grins and lets Namjoon wrap his arm around his shoulder and lead him home.

xxxxxxxxx

When they get home Yoongi is sprawled on his stomach on the couch, his feet dangling over the edge and headphone atop his head. He’s scribbling something or another into his latest lyrics book and is completely absorbed by it.

Namjoon nods at him, giving him his full support. Jimin gathers the courage to take those three steps whilst Namjoon goes to Seokjin’s shoulder and taps it, leaning down to whisper into his ear. Seokjin’s gaze flickers over to Jimin, appraising him slowly, then he gets up.

“Come help me with dinner,” he tells Taehyung and Jungkook who are lazing around watching TV.

“Eh?” Taehyung complains, but Jungkook glances over to see Jimin shuffling nervously on the spot and gets it. He grabs Taehyung by the arm and manhandles him out of the living room.

“Good luck hyung,” he shoots Jimin as he passes, dragging a squawking Taehyung behind him. Hoseok is in the shower and as Namjoon goes to tell him, Seokjin closes the kitchen door, and Jimin is left alone with Yoongi.

He stands there trying to think of how to start a conversation when Yoongi slips off one side of his headphones and calls out, “Hey Seokjin-”

When there’s no reply he turns and realizes the room is empty save him and Jimin.

“Oh, hey Jiminnie,” he says throatily and Jimin shivers. It’s been so long since Yoongi has called him by his name, let alone a pet one. Yoongi scoots around, twisting so he is sitting up and looking directly as Jimin. As he scratches his head his sleeve shifts and the bandages sneak out from underneath, taunting Jimin. “Um, what’s up? How was practice?”

Jimin finds himself crossing the space of the room, and falling down into Yoongi. He wraps his arms around his waist tightly and buries his face into the crook of Yoongi’s shoulder.

“Jimin? Hey Jimin?” Yoongi cracks, stiff and alert. “Is something wrong?”

Jimin shakes his head into the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt, and slowly, Yoongi’s hand comes up to the small of his back where he rubs comforting circles into his shoulder blades. Slowly Jimin gathers courage, tiny fireflies that congregate and glow brightly.

“Do you hate me?” he asks in a tiny whisper, his words almost muffled by Yoongi’s hoodie.

“Hate you?” Yoongi echoes, grabbing Jimin by the shoulder and pushing him back so that they are face to face. “I could never hate you.”

“But I…” Jimin hesitates. “I should have told everyone else when I found you cutting. I should have stopped you earlier… I should have never tried all that Butterfly stuff. I should have just-“

“Shh,” Yoongi growls, his fingers digging into the bones of Jimin’s shoulders. “That wasn’t yours to deal with. It was my burden, and I put it all on your shoulders. I shouldn’t have but I… you helped me. You helped me want to not cut. Just by being there you helped. But then when you weren’t…”

Jimin puts his hand over Yoongi’s, grazing the pads of his fingertips atop Yoongi’s knuckle. “I helped?” his voice is a quiet whisper.

Yoongi’s is the rustle of leaves. “You helped,” he says in a crackling tone.

“Did the butterflies ever help?” Jimin can’t help but ask.

Yoongi curls his hand, forcing Jimin’s fingers to fold over with it. “Only because I knew you’d be disappointed with me if they didn’t.”

“Then shall we forget about the butterfly thing?” Jimin says in a deep, throaty voice, eyes dark and round.

Yoongi blinks and the ceiling light flits off his eyelashes. Jimin thinks that from this distance he can count every lash.

“And do what then Jiminnie?” Yoongi asks. “I need something to hold onto. Every day I wake up and my hands itch for a blade. The only reason I haven’t found one yet is because Seokjin confiscated them all.” There’s a wry smile at the end of his sentence.

Jimin likes that smile. What he doesn’t like is that Yoongi is still struggling.

“What if we changed the butterflies?” Jimin suggests, eyes flickering over every part of Yoongi. He examines the way Yoongi’s eyes widen a fraction, the way his lips press tight and his hands twitch.

“Change them to…what?”

Jimin clamps down his hand over Yoongi’s, and Yoongi flinches, not that it hurts or anything, but rather because there’s something very  _authoritative_  about the action. “Namjoon-hyung said you stopped cutting because of me.”

The words are bold and Yoongi wants to shy away from them. But there’s the couch behind him and Jimin in front of him and he has nowhere to run. “I may have said that,” he admits in a gravelly voice.

Jimin licks his lips. “So if it’s because of me, will you try to stop wanting to cut?”

Yoongi swallows. “Isn’t that what I did before?”

Jimin crooks his neck and bends downwards. His hand curls around Yoongi’s wrist, and slowly he pulls it outwards, exposing his elbow and the thick creamy bandage there.

“Have they healed yet?” he asks, lips a murmur there.

Yoongi’s breath hitches. “I don’t know,” he confesses. “I don’t look at them when Seokjin changes the bandages.”

“Can I take them off then?” Jimin asks, dark eyes looking up at Yoongi.

Yoongi swallows and nods.

Jimin has to take his hands off of Yoongi’s wrist to undo the bandages, so Yoongi has to hold up his arm himself. The bandage comes off in a long, thick unravelling, fabric tumbling to the couch like a fallen feather.

The scars have mostly healed, but they still look pretty red and raw under the harsh living room lights. Yoongi shakes at the sight of them and his mouth feels dry and his head like cotton.

But then Jimin leans down and presses his lips to the first of the scores.

“Jimin!” Yoongi exclaims, jumping backwards and hitting the couch. “What are you doing?”

Jimin looks at him appraisingly.

“How about this then hyung?” he murmurs, fingers dancing over Yoongi’s scars. “For every time you feel like cutting, instead of a drawing a butterfly, what if I were to kiss the pain away for you.”

Yoongi feels a lump in his throat, heavy and burdened. He tries to speak but something blocks his vocal cords.

Jimin bends down and presses another kiss, a fraction higher over the next cut.

“Yes?” he asks carefully, eyes never leaving Yoongi’s. “If I do this, will you stop thinking about cutting? Stop wanting it?”

Yoongi swallows and the sensation goes down his intestines like a lump. “I- yes- maybe-“

Jimin grins, all child-like, and there’s that tiny dimple at the corner of his mouth. “Yes? Okay?”

Yoongi flares up, embarrassed. “I said yes once brat. Don’t make me say it another time.”

“But I want to hear you say it again,” Jimin pouts, looking up at Yoongi. “Is this okay?”

Yoongi growls and shoves him away, hands on Jimin’s chest.

Jimin’s smile just grows and laughter bounces around the room. “Don’t worry hyung,” he says, smiling still. “I’ll be better than any butterfly. I’ll make you happy, I promise.”

Yoongi grounds out a sigh, but there is no anger behind it. You better,” Yoongi huffs, and Jimin’s smile broadens.

He lifts Yoongi’s arm again and presses another kiss, right at the crease of his elbow. “I will, I promise. Cross my heart.”

Yoongi flushes and twists. “Okay, enough with the kisses.”

Jimin blinks, all faux innocence. “But I need to make sure you never want to cut again. I need to make certain that every time you think about cutting, you think about me instead.”

Yoongi’s eyes flare wide, flushed. “Don’t get full of yourself!”

Jimin grins, and suddenly his hand sneaks below Yoongi’s hoodie, crawling up to where the bandage on his chest still is. Yoongi stills as Jimin’s fingers trace over the square outlines.

“This one as well. One day,” Jimin whispers, suddenly solemn.

“Yeah?” Yoongi says in a cracking tone.

“Yeah,” Jimin says and leans forwards to press a kiss right over the bandage, on the fabric of Yoongi’s hoodie. “Until then…”

He leans back and his eyes sparkle. “So hyung? What are you thinking about now?”

Yoongi swallows and instead of shiny blades and shiny lines of red, there’s an image of a shiny eyed Jimin peering up at him, sweat having stiffened his hair in all directions and lips ruby red.

Yoongi chokes and turns his face away. But he knows his reddening ears are giving him away.

“Good,” Jimin grins and slides off the couch, heading for the kitchen where distinct smells of chicken and rice are forming. “Coming?” he asks, turning back for Yoongi who is still stuck on the couch.

Yoongi blinks and something in his chest flutter at the mere action of Jimin simply _waiting_  for Yoongi. Tiny wings spread, growing and beating. It steadies itself and peers up at the light. Jimin holds out one hand, and Yoongi gives in to that smile as he takes it, Jimin tugging him up and onwards, and that little butterfly in his heart shakes its wings out and takes flight. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s this thing called The Butterfly Project. They say that when you feel the urge to cut, instead, draw a butterfly. If you cut before the butterfly naturally fades away, it dies. If not, it lives. It’s a beautiful idea, and unfortunately just like many beautiful things do, it is very easy for them to be warped. 
> 
> That in essence was the inspiration for this story.
> 
> That does not mean the Butterfly Project is not an amazing idea, but what I do think is that whilst many good things can go wrong that doesn't suddenly make it a bad thing, or you a failure for not being able to live up to it. It just means it wasn't for you. And instead maybe there's something else suited just for you instead. 
> 
> Hence, part I: a fall, part 2: a helping hand. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading. Time to get back to my unfinished fics.


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